


Twisted Home

by Oh_Hey_Its



Category: Tegan and Sara (Band)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gender Dysphoria, Very brief mention of self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2016-09-05
Packaged: 2018-08-13 05:08:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7963663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oh_Hey_Its/pseuds/Oh_Hey_Its
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This body? It's all you've got.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twisted Home

**Author's Note:**

> I know its been a month since I've posted anything and for that I am sorry. Shit happens, life gets in the way, and quite frankly I just haven't had the time nor the motivation to sit down and write. I've got the beginnings of another chapter of 3086 Lost in the works right now as I ease back into writing more but in the meantime, I figured I'd post this.
> 
> It is something I've been thinking about writing for awhile because it revolves around a subject close to both my heart and my personal life. When I first found out Sara didn't identify completely as female a couple of years ago (whether or not she goes to the lengths she does in this fic, we'll probably never know) her at least being slightly open about her identity definitely helped me as I started to learn to deal with my own personal experiences and identification.
> 
> Anyways, enjoy. Your thoughts are always welcome either on tumblr or here :)

It is a strange feeling, something that is impossible to truly understand even if you are experiencing it first hand for yourself. Your body is supposed to be your home, your vessel, your safe haven. You lose your job, a family member dies, a natural disaster strikes, and every time the first thing you must do is count all of your limbs and treat your wounds because this body? It’s all you’ve got.

 It’s easy to forget that feeling, especially if the ownership you’re supposed to feel over the glue that holds the skin to your bones doesn’t exist in your skull. Your mind is like a maze. One day you feel okay and comfortable, like the you in the mirror is reflecting what is nestled deep inside. It doesn’t take long, however, seconds, minutes, hours, days. Suddenly the creature staring back isn’t _you_ anymore. Their hips are too wide, their chest is too big, their genitals are all wrong.

Still, you stare. You question. You wonder why the inside can’t match the out, why you can feel okay one second and hopelessly trapped the next. The switch is inane, uncontrollable, relentless. Your soul writhes and howls as your thoughts twist into knots and you search agonizingly for some sort of relief for the anguish you feel inside. This is no longer your home, no longer the thing that keeps you safe in this stricken world.

You are terrified. Confused. Paralyzed.

Then, she comes to you. Her arms wrap around your naked waist, her lips pressing softly onto the side of your neck, her hair tickling your shoulders. Her fingers reach to trace the pale white scars lined up in neat little rows, her light touch raising goose bumps on your skin. She doesn’t really understand, no, but this is enough. Her love is the only thing holding your pieces together.

She leads you to the bed, her calloused fingers interlaced firmly with your own. You sit hunched over on the tangled sheets, hands folded uselessly in your lap as she turns and sifts through the set of drawers in front of you, her naked body illuminated in the early morning light filtering through the blinds.

She is beautiful. Sometimes she forgets this, but it is the most true fact you know. You wish, more than anything, to shake off this dysphoria and reassure her of your love; to stand and grasp the globes of her ass, the tiny bumps of her spine as they march down her back, caress the flexing muscles of her shoulder blades as they aid in her search… to worship her body. You can do nothing more than wish though, aching regret chewing away at the beating muscle pumping this life through your veins.

She turns, handing you your binder and a pair of black boxer briefs. You stand and slip on both impassively, staring down at your crotch until your packer is slipped into its separate pocket in the front. Then, only then, do you relax. In your head, you know that the image before you is fake, that underneath the clothing you are still a woman and as feminine as you were before. She beams, stepping behind you, and whispers how handsome she thinks you look. The thoughts evaporate and you smile, reaching back to cup her face.

This is okay.

Stepping into your closet you find the clothing you are looking for, slipping on the fitted trousers, crisp white shirt, tailored blazer, and white oxfords like they are old friends. You stand in the mirror, shoving your hands casually into your pockets, and study yourself closely.

The slight bulge in your pants and the complete flatness of your chest fills you with completion. You turn, staring from several different angles. It’s perfect.

She appears then, dressed much more casually in a t-shirt, jeans, and doc martens. “I always forget how nicely you clean up.” She laughs, pulling you close. You relish the feeling of her breasts brushing against the nothingness of your own, the pressure of your crotch fitting into hers. This is a good home for now.

You hold hands on the bustling streets, casually dipping into stores or stopping for drinks and bites to eat in artsy coffee shops and later, hole in the wall breweries. Her laughter illuminates wherever you go, and you refuse to let yourself take that happy go lucky grin for granted. This acceptance, this pure love, this life. None of it seemed attainable in the years past. Now, however, with her at your side, it seems as though the entire world has offered itself up to you, like maybe you could be unstoppable.

When they look at the pair of you they see a boy and a girl, male and female, penis and vagina, two separate parts of a biological whole. Sometimes you wonder if that strips her of her own identity. She, after all, is a lesbian, attracted to women and the feminine qualities that come along with them. You aren’t able to give that to her all of the time, and although she reassures you that she is attracted to _you_ and not your skin, though, she tells you, you are the most handsome man she has have ever seen just the same as you are the most beautiful woman she has ever laid her eyes upon, you can’t help but wonder sometimes.

It’s almost as if she can see your brain working, reaching over with a gentle touch. “I love you ya know.” She mutters playfully, shy grin turning up the corners of her lips.

You soften. “I love you too… more than anything.”

It’s late when you finally stumble back in to your apartment, hands fumbling and reaching for one another. You push her against the wall, your dominance palpable, and attach your lips to her neck. She moans, a gasp leaving her lips as her hands clasp behind your neck.

“Sara.” She groans. “Fuck Sara.”

You smile into your ministrations, leaving the hickies to darken against her tanned skin as you lead her to the bedroom, stripping her of her clothing as you go.

She lies on the bed, propped onto her elbows, wearing nothing but a plain black bra and matching boy shorts. She bites her lip and gestures you forward with a single finger, watching as you unbutton the top of your shirt and take off your pants to reveal your clavicle and a much more noticeable bulge in your underwear. You step closer, working yourself through the hole in your boxer briefs so that your cock stands outward in a much prouder position. She watches your every move, eyes lidded as a hand works beneath her panties. You growl at the sight, forgoing much foreplay. After a quick check to make sure she’s wet enough—god she’s soaked—you remove the last two articles of clothing and push inside.

She moans, back arching. You brace yourself over her, leaning down and kissing her neck once more as you begin to languidly thrust into her over and over. She grasps at your ass as you pick up your pace, and you stop kissing her so you can focus on the rhythm the pair of you are building. Her moans get louder and you know she’s close, you are too.

Her fingernails dig into your back as she comes undone beneath, twitching once, twice, spasming around you. You follow almost immediately after, groaning into her neck and thrusting unevenly a few times more before slowing to a stop. She sighs as she comes down, a hand reaching up to run through your sweaty locks. You try to imagine your cum deep inside her, dripping out of her entrance from around you, filling her up deep inside.

You keep the illusion for as long as you can before you pull out, falling breathlessly beside her onto your back. She rolls over, resting her cheek on your chest, and quickly falls asleep. Her deep even breaths tickle your neck, and you reach lovingly around her unconscious form to cradle her close.

You are the luckiest man in the world.

Tomorrow you might wake up and decide that having breasts and a vagina makes your body feel more like a home than a dick and no chest at all. Or maybe you’ll wake up and feel yourself growing hard at the feeling of her touch and you’ll fuck her senseless in bed followed by another session in the shower.

Your home is twisted, yes. Your insides change themselves on a dime and force you to scramble in their wake to conform to their whims. The dysphoria is uncomfortable, challenging, crippling at times, but this experience is nothing but an adage of your life, of your experience.

You are here, you are alive, you are yourself, you have a woman who loves and accepts you and all of your flaws.

You are home.


End file.
